


Wild Love

by Fueledbychelle



Category: Unspecified Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 13:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14112933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fueledbychelle/pseuds/Fueledbychelle
Summary: Just some Timmy/OFC smut, based on an anon message detailing Timmy's O-face. You're welcome





	Wild Love

You’re sat on the kitchen counter with Timmy standing in between your legs, his right hand cupping your jaw, pressing your head back against the cabinet, preventing you from moving.

 “Why don’t you tell me how you fucked him,” he practically spits it at you, in your face, jaw clenching, fingers digging into the skin of your cheeks.

 He pushes your head again, knocking against the cabinet. Both of your hands wrap about his wrist, trying to loosen his grip, and when he doesn’t let up, you squeeze tighter, fingernails digging into the skin of his forearm. You twist your head to the left, out of his grasp, before he can say anything, a smirk on your face, “Jesus, Timmy. I want to be critical of that, but fuck, that was hot. You make this asshole thing look easy.”

 He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He takes a few steps away from you, giving you space. You had been running lines with him all day, each time more violent, and exhausting than the last. Something about filming Beautiful Boy turned him inside out, put a cigarette in his mouth, and made him contemplate just how far he was willing to take a character. And you were here for it. He doesn’t want to break his character, but he instinctively reaches out to touch the red marks on your cheeks, his eyes apologetic.

“Leave it,” you swat his hand away, “I’m fine, but remind me never to fuck anyone else.”

“You’re supposed to be giving me feedback,” he chuckles, grabbing a pack of cigarettes off of the counter and heading for the fire escape. He turns around and holds his hand out in your direction, “come outside and get some air with me.”

You follow suit, hopping off of the counter to follow him out the window, closing it behind you. He already has a lit cigarette in his mouth, and you mouth a ‘thank you’ at him when you take it out of his mouth and take a drag, “this shit will kill you, you know.”

“I fucking hope so,” he’s got that shit-eating grin on his face, reclaiming the cigarette, looking out at the city. He leans against the railing, shaking his head like he’s trying to climb out of it and back to reality, “you think the character is too much?”

“I need you to know that it’s really good, and I’m not saying that because I’m biased. I think it’s dark and twisty and I need you to believe that,” you tell him, wholeheartedly, because you think the sun shines out of his ass, and also because this really sexy dark version of him makes your skin crawl in the best way possible, “But let’s be done with running lines, yeah?”

You stand in front of him, hands on his waist moving under his shirt and up his chest, lips to his adam’s apple, sucking hard. You can feel the audible groan he makes, his hands instinctively finding your ass. “mmm and do what?” he backs you up against the wall, sliding his knee between your thighs, dropping his head to your shoulder, licking the skin from your collarbone just below your ear like a kitten. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging his head up and back to look at you. Eyes dark, cheeks flushed, ready to get on his knees and beg for it. He smiles at you, lips parted, waiting for your next move, and you take the opportunity to open the window behind you, sneaking inside, “come find out.”

He follows you back inside, reaching out once he gets inside to wrap an arm around your waist from behind. His hands move to your hips, pulling them flush against his, lips to your ear, “is this what you want?” You turn around in his grasp, grabbing a fist full of his shirt, pulling him towards your bedroom, grinning, “in here.”

Your bedroom overlooks the city, with tall windows covering the far wall. There’s something about waking up every morning to sunlight and the skyline, not to mention the fact that Timmy has been putting the idea of exhibitionism in your ear since his birthday. He practices self-denial on many fronts—no half effort, no sleeping past 10, but the muffled groan into the crook of your neck when you give him the green light to fuck in front of this window, definitely sounds like he’s making an exception for sex.

He presses your back up against the window, his mouth hot on yours, from your lips to your jaw to your throat. He’s warm, and soft, and his heart is racing. He pulls his shirt over his head before his fingers find the bottom of your shirt, pulling it off, his mouth tracing the curved lines of the tattoo on your collarbone. You slip your hand inside his jeans, an audible, “fuck” coming involuntarily out of his mouth when you slide your palm along his length, his head falling against your shoulder. You wrap a fist around his cock and draw him out with one a long stroke. He wouldn’t make it through many of those.  His right hand traces up your body, his fingers settling on your jaw reminiscent of practicing lines earlier. He pushes your head back against the glass, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth, sweetly, before drawing back, eyes dark, “on your knees.”

You wrap your hand around his throbbing cock, his hand lifting the hair from your neck, holding it in a ponytail behind you to get a better view of you twisting your tongue around his shaft like you’re tracing the line on an ice cream swirl. He gets harder every time you take him deep, his breath starting to catch. You look up at him, his eyes dark, focused on you taking as much of him as possible, leaning against the window to hold himself up with his free arm.

“Fuck,” he tightens the grip on your hair, and you stand up, licking the length of his bottom lip before pressing your lips to his. This is the kind of Timmy that you love, where he tries to wrap himself around your entire body, his mouth on any skin he can find, settling back on your mouth in one of those long, languid open-mouth kisses you pry out of him every so often. His hands on your cheeks, guiding you, and he pulls away only to trace a finger from your forehead, to your nose, and lips; a safe gesture. You take a second to appreciate his flushed cheeks, dark green eyes, curls sticking to his forehead, chest heaving.

“What you did earlier was really sexy” you turn around, pressing your back against his chest, “I bet you think about this, fucking in front of a window for everyone to see when you’re away.”

His hands find your hips, pushing the material of your jeans and panties down. His lips run along your spine, teeth biting the skin on your hip before standing back up, lips to your ear, “If you only knew how many times I’ve came thinking about you.” His hand slides between your legs, two fingers pushed deep inside, pressing against you with every stroke of his fingers. You rock back on your heels, feeling the warmth of his breath against your neck.  He removes his hand, sucking both fingers into his mouth before screwing himself inside. He’s gentle and sweet but you don’t want that now, you want the Timmy who had his hand around your throat. He’ll play the game if you start it. Bucking your hips back into his lap, you elicit a soft cry from his throat.

He squeezes his eyes shut, appreciating this new level of intimacy; not the face to face, connected moment he’s used to sharing. He buries himself to the hilt, and you sob out a breath, his hand running up your spine, grabbing your shoulder to gain leverage to thrust again. He kisses the back of your neck, where it meets your shoulders, and times it with a deep, hard stroke.

“Touch yourself, like you do when I’m off filming,” he groans, and you obey, fingers finding your swollen clit, “look at me,”

If there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s how much you enjoy eye contact, watching his face as he comes apart. You turn your head to look at him, eyes meeting, a moan escaping from his mouth. He draws in and out twice, slowly, working himself right up to the very edge. Then, with one deep hard slam, he comes, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, fingers digging into your hips, soft moans escaping his mouth as his body spasms behind you. Just looking at him is enough to drive you over the edge. You cry out, but Timmy clamps his mouth down over yours, more shared breath than kissing. He pumps three more times, still trying to ride out his own orgasm, slumping against you.

  
“Ohmygod,” he pants, shifting his weight back on his heels, pressing lazy wet kisses down your neck, shoulder, and spine. You turn around brushing his hair out of his face, wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing the corner of his mouth. His lips are salty from sweat, his heart pounding against his ribs, and he walks backwards with you still in his arms, falling onto the bed, spent.

**Author's Note:**

> None of this happened, i own no one, come fight me at isaysexualthingsabouttchalamet on tumblr


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